


Parasympathomimetic Stimulant

by gay_bird



Series: Rød, raudona, czerwony [2]
Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Patryck Is a Dad, Red Army, Sickfic, Smoking, Tord Is an Idiot, Vomiting, what is new
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 08:35:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16301750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gay_bird/pseuds/gay_bird
Summary: In which Tord has poor coping mechanisms and pays for it, Patryck is Soft, Paul done with everyone's shit and innocent communist revolutionaries are shouted at.





	Parasympathomimetic Stimulant

**Author's Note:**

> My first fanfic, which I wrote at 2 am after I went through nasty nicotine poisoning and thought to myself: "Hey, you know would be a great way to deal with this terrifying and awful experience? Make a fictional boi suffer through the same thing!". So, here you are. Don't smoke kids.
> 
> Also, I don't know what the canonical age for Tord is so he is somewhere in his early twenties in this one. And while I did not mean to write this as Paul/Patryck fic, read it as whatever you want.
> 
> Kudos, comments and constructive criticism are always appreciated.

The lighter sparked empty a couple of times, before finally producing a flame. Red Leader hastily placed the tip of his cigar into the fire and inhaled the coarse smoke. He watched the heat spread through the tobacco coloring it red and leaving ashes in its wake. He could probably make a Red Army metaphor from that… Fuck, he should really focus on the meeting.

“Therefore, we must wait until the convoy passes through this gorge before attempting any takeover, as the climatic conditions…”

Or not. They were a revolutionary army, for fuck’s sake. How long could they spend talking about one medical supply convoy? He took another drag of his cigar, inhaling deep into his lungs and keeping the smoke in for a significant time before huffing it out. The room swayed and for a moment he nearly lost his balance, leaning heavily into the armrest of his chair. The general was still talking. 

“General.”

The poor man tensed so violently that he flung the laser pointer he was holding through the entire room. 

“Sir?”

“Are you able to lead the operation?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Then why are you wasting everyone’s time? “ Red Leader rose to his feet, “And why are all of you wasting time? You know what to do. There is a war to be won, so stop wasting time on this bullshit and get out of my sight!”

No one moved.

“Now!”

Everyone gathered their paperwork and guns from the conference table and made a quick exit, except for a freshly promoted officer who just stood in the corner, his arm raised.

“Red Leader, I don’t know what to…”

A telltale sound of gun being cocked echoed through the now empty room. The young officer gulped and disappeared, leaving his Leader alone with his two closest men.

 

He collapsed back into his armchair, closing his eyes as the room spun around him. He needed to calm down. Try to count cigar stubs in the crystal ashtray in front of him. The lamplight reflected from it onto the table in such a fascinating… Fuck. He needed another drag. He put the cigar held limply in his left hand back to his lips and inhaled. Nothing. Faen. When the fuck did the fire go out?

Red Leader fumbled around in his pockets for a bit before grabbing a compact lighter with sickle and hammer on the side. Good. Now he just had to just re-light the cigar and calm down. Why were his hands shaking so much now? It can’t be withdrawal, he just smoked. Probably nerves. A violent spasm ran through his hand and the lighter clattered on the on the desk.

“Paul?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Could you light my cigar?”

“Are you sure, boss? You don’t look so well. Maybe some fresh air…”

“Paul?”

“Yes, sir?

“Do you think that was a fucking suggestion?”

 

He exhaled smoke and watched it float in front of the bright lights of the war room with an odd detachment, he usually only felt after an extremely bloody battle. Patryck and Paul were saying something but he was too consumed in the slow flow of his thoughts to comprehend what they said. He should probably get some sleep. He should work on attack plans. He should look at the blueprints he got from the science department this morning. He should…

The cigar burnt to his fingers. He recoiled in pain, dropping the burning stub on his pants and then scrambling away from that heat. The chair fell and he fell with it. Laying on his side he rubbed his burnt thigh with one hand and sucked on his burnt fingers on the other one. 

“Boss? Boss, are you alright?”

That was… Patryck. Yes. The man on the ground looked up and into two pairs of concerned eyes. 

“I’m fine,” he sat up, leaning heavily onto trembling arms. “Just lost my balance for a bit.”

Paul furrowed his impressive brows, “Excuse my profanity, sir, but I call bullshit on that. You are barely sitting upright.”

“Fucking watch me, “ the shorter man said as he staggered onto his feet. He even managed to be completely upright for a moment, before the floor moved and he stumbled until managing to lean against the table.

Patryck sighed and walked to him, gently sliding a hand under one of his arms and taking some of his body weight on himself. The shorter man froze for a moment, before the tremors in his arms spread through his abdomen and into his legs. His knees started shaking weakly, as he moved away from the table and towards the exit.

“This is unnecessary,” he protested weakly but kept leaning against the pilot. Deciding to not comment,  Patryck waited for Paul to open the door and found himself rubbing small circles into their leader’s lower back, feeling him trembling under his fingers. The red-clad man relaxed into the touch a bit but as soon as they stepped into the crisp winter air of the military base courtyard the shaking of his legs went from barely noticeable to full-on limb spasms, making him collapse into the light snow coverage. He tried to focus on breathing, on calming down, on anything but the tremors running through his body and the increasing pressure on his esophagus.

“Sir?”

His heart was beating way too fast, way too loud.

Sir, what’s wrong?”

He couldn’t breathe. His throat tensed up with every tremor and  _ he couldn’t breathe. _

“Sir, please, speak to us.”

His mouth tasted like bile and smoke and blood and tears were beginning to form in his eyes.

“Tord?”

The strongest spasm yet ran through his entire body and he finally gave in, throwing up on the snow. The bile splattered on the ground and his hands, some of it getting caught on his face and in the hair loosened from his ponytail. He heaved a couple more times before pushing himself up into a sitting position and collapsing into a shivering heap in Paul’s arms. The older man gently squeezed his shoulder.

“C’mon, boss. You can get through this. I did too, when I started smoking, you know. It will go away soon. Just take deep breaths, okay?”

No response came from the sick man but his breathing seemed to calm down a little.

Patryck crouched down next to them and joined Paul in coaxing their leader, “It’s alright, yeah? It’s just all of the nicotine messing with your system. Now, you’ll calm down, we’ll get you to your rooms and you’ll get a good night’s sleep. And in the morning you’ll be all better. Sounds good?”

A small sound of agreement came from the curled figure this time. 

Just as Paul was about to help his superior back to his feet, one of their soldiers walked into the courtyard and stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the scene in front of him.

“Is there anything to see here, soldier?,” the pilot barked at him while once again putting his arm around Tords waist.

“...”

“I thought so. Now continue by your orders and leave the Leader alone. Understood?”

The soldier disappeared as fast as he came.

Patryck joined Paul in supporting the young leader and they carefully lifted him to his unsteady feet. Another spasm ran through him, causing him to dry heave, but the two soldiers reassuringly rubbed his back and half-walked, half-dragged him through the courtyard into one of the largest buildings in the base. 

The air was suffocatingly warm and his coat too tight on his chest. There were turns, and lights and Gud, why was everything spinning so much? His stomach still lurched and if it weren’t for the two men supporting him, he would’ve probably just passed out on the floor. 

They stopped in front of rather large wooden doors with a simple golden inscription stating “The Red Leader”. Patryck stayed supporting him, while Paul typed the password into an electronic lock on the door.

“You...know my password.”

“Yeah.”

“My personal password.”

“Yeah.”

“My personal, very secret password that can get you into my very personal rooms filled with very secret stuff.”

“We’ll talk about this when you aren’t passing out, okay?”

Tord would have objected but his stomach was rebelling again and the opened door to his quarters looked too inviting. Patryck maneuvered him into his room and onto his bed where he lay for… some time, just feeling the room spin around him and his body quivering less and less. A face with rather prominent eyebrows appeared in his view and precise fingers started unbuttoning his overcoat.

“What are you doing?”

“You can’t sleep in your coat and boots, duh.”

“I can undress myself.”

Paul just raised an eyebrow. The younger man laboriously sat up and attempted to undo the rest of his buttons, only to find that his hands were still trembling too violently to even grasp the slick metal. Paul watched his attempts bemusedly for a while, before gently pushing his hand away. Tord would have said something but exhaustion was quickly wearing away the last bits of defiance left in him.

 

When Patryck came back into the room with a pitcher of water and a damp cloth, Tord was already undressed into his t-shirt and boxers, huddled under several blankets and propped up by the large amounts of cushions (and body pillows) he owned. He was also absolutely unconscious, somewhere on the fine line between delirium and sleep. Paul looked at the cloth, then at the sleeping revolutionary and then back at his partner.

“Please tell me that you are not going to wash him while he’s asleep.”

“How would you feel if you woke up covered in your own vomit?”

“Like I do every other Sunday morning. He is a grown man, a military leader. You can’t baby him like he is your kid.”

“He is barely twenty, Pau. Did you see him at the courtyard? I don’t care how much of a genius or revolutionary he is, I will not let a boy so sick and terrified that he can’t even stand on his own without any help.”

The bushy-haired man glanced at the man (kid, really) curled up with his knees drawn to his chin, slightly shivering under the mass of blankets. He exhaled with annoyance.

“Give me that that wet rag. And bring some Aspirin. He’ll need it tomorrow.”

  
  


 

***

 

 

Two days after the incident, the Red Army base, somewhere deep in the mountains of Norway…

 

“Patryck, Paul, have you by any chance seen  my cigars?”

“What cigars, boss?”

“The several cartons of cigars I had stored in at least five places on the base.”

“Oh, those cigars!”

“Yes, those cigars.”

“Those might have accidentally gotten to the pile of trash meant for incineration.”

“Those might have WHAT NOW?”

“Relax, boss. We’ll be getting a new supply in three months.”

“IN...IN THREE MONTHS? YOU ARE DEAD MEN.”

  
  
  



End file.
